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If our recent post about the writing of poetry editor Michelle Chan Brown left you wondering what our fiction team is up to these days, look no further: today, we’re spotlighting some wonderful recent work by our lovely fiction editors, Sybil Baker (left) and Holly Wendt (right).

Sybil’s most recent work online appeared in Prime Number Magazine and can be viewed here:

I wanted to say, but if I don’t live forever, then who will remember?Who will remember the way your pinkie won’t straighten because Lukeslammed the car door when he was late for soccer practice? Or how yourfather made the best ice cream, hand cranking the cream and vanilla cooled by salted ice because he swore that it tasted better that way?Or your hands, the color of red wine from the blackberries you pickedat the edge of the woods to put on top of the ice cream, like anexotic bird’s wings as you lifted the spoon to your open mouth?

He looks like Hulk Hogan, maybe, if the Hulk never did steroids and wasn’t California-blond. If the Hulk never had a reality television program and might have been someone’s grandfather. Because this man is easily of a grandfatherly age, surely close to sixty, an aging kind of muscular going soft in the middle, with a gray ponytail and a thick, drooping mustache. Maybe he’s not even going to Sturgis, is a local, and that’s why he’s got so little with him. But he’s wearing a Sturgis t-shirt, long-faded blue, and he, too, has a map. He catches her looking at him, and he grins, folds his map up crisply, and tucks it into his back pocket. Kim ducks her head, embarrassed, and thinks instead of the land ahead of her, the fossil and bone and black liquid remains fermented deep in Wyoming’s oilfields.